A  ^o^ 
SLUMBER 
STORY  ^ 


EUGENE  ** 
FIELD   **  * 


THE   STARS: 

A    Slumber    Story 

By     EUGENE      FIELD 


NEW    AMSTERDAM    BOOK    COMPANY 
156   FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK    :    MCM1 


Copyright,  1901,  by 
New  Amsterdam  Book  Company 


CONTENTS 


The  Child-Love  of  Eugene  Field  .  .  i 
The  Stars  .  .  .  .  . '  .  i 
Eugene  Field,  a  Sketch  .  .  .  -53 


The  CHILD-LOVE 

OF  EUGENE  FIELD 


The    CHILD-LOVE   of 
EUGENE  FIELD 

An   Appreciation 

AS  the  children's  poet,  Eugene 
Field  will  long  live  in  litera 
ture  and  in  the  public  heart.  What  he 
accomplished  in  the  field  of  human 
achievement  as  a  journalist,  as  poet  and 
romancer,  is  as  naught  compared  to 
his  undying  fame  as  the  noblest  bard 
of  childhood.  I  knew  him  during  a 
period  of  fifteen  years,  in  Denver,  in 
Kansas  City,  and  in  Chicago — a  period 
in  which  he  expressed  in  printed  words 
those  marvellous  songs  of  childhood 
which  found  genesis  in  his  kindly  heart 
and  active  mind. 

He  seems  to  have  been  the  one  poet 
in   all    modern  American    literature  to 


EUGENE      FIELD: 

have  discovered  childhood  and  to  un 
fold  its  wondrous  revelations.  No  man 
nor  woman  who  has  passed  through 
The  Struggle  can  read  the  lullabies  and 
the  child-songs  of  Eugene  Field  and 
not  realize  that  he  kindles  afresh  the 
spark  of  child-life,  and  gives  it  an 
eternal  glow  of  gentleness,  of  tender 
ness,  and  of  love. 

He  was  a  Homer  to  the  children. 
He  revelled  in  their  pleasures.  His 
tender  strains  in  praise  of  childhood 
were  but  the  outbursts  of  his  own 
boyish  heart.  He  himself  was  a  boy, 
and  all  men  and  women  who  called 
him  friend  were  his  boy  and  girl  friends 
and  whilom  playmates.  He  once  said: 
[  viii  ] 


The      Children"1*      Poet 

"I  like  boy  life.  I  like  the  buoy 
ancy  of  youth  and  its  freshness;  the 
pleasures  of  life  that  come  to  a  boy  in 
the  country.  It  is  a  God's  pity  every 
young  child  cannot  get  a  taste  of  country 
life  at  some  time." 

He  always  lived  in  the  closest  and 
fondest  intimacy  with  the  children,  and 
was  thus  enabled  to  voice  childish  sen 
timent  and  feeling.  It  is  true — and  in 
accordance  with  his  own  confession- 
he  did  not  love  all  children.  He  tried 
to  analyze  his  feelings  with  respect  to 
them,  and  he  loved  them  personally 
only  in  so  far  as  he  could  make  pets  of 
them.  And  few  there  were,  whether 
they  came  to  him  in  silks  or  in  cottons, 


EUGENE      FIELD: 

who  were  not  his  pets.  In  his  home 
life  he  called  about  him  children  of  all 
ages  and  all  conditions.  He  loved  to 
have  it  so,  and  with  them  and  among 
them  he  easily  made  himself  a  child 
again,  and  joined  them  in  their  games. 
He  loved  the  things  that  children  love. 
He  once  wrote  :  "  I  believe  in  ghosts, 
in  witches,  and  in  fairies,  and  I  adore 
dolls."  It  is  known  that  during  his 
lifetime  he  bought  hundreds  of  dolls, 
and  once,  when  making  generous  pur 
chases  at  a  toy  shop,  he  made  excuses 
thus:  "Oh,  when  little  girls  come  to 
see  me  I  can  give  them  a  dolly  to  take 
home."  That  illustrates  his  character 
better  than  the  words  of  others.  He 


The      Children^      Poet 

was  kind-hearted  to  a  fault,  and  his 
sympathy  was  broad  and  deep.  Enter 
ing  a  strange  household,  it  seemed  only 
natural  for  him  to  move  about  and  seek 
the  children,  and  the  youngsters  went 
to  his  lap  as  quickly  and  as  joyously  as 
to  a  garden  swing. 

He  loved  the  poor  outcast  waifs  of 
the  street  with  the  same  tenderness  be 
stowed  upon  the  children  of  his  friends 
and  neighbors,  and  it  is  said  of  him 
that  on  his  wedding  day  he  kept  his 
bride  waiting  at  the  church,  while  he, 
on  his  knees  in  the  mud  of  the  street, 
settled  a  dispute  among  a  quartette  of 
ragamuffins  over  a  game  of  marbles. 

While  his  songs  of  childhood  remain 


EUGENE     FIELD: 

a  monument  to  his  memory,  other  lines 
which  fell  occasionally  from  his  facile 
pen  add  no  small  measure  to  the  gentle 
sweetness  that  marked  the  kindly  man. 
His  letters  to  his  own  children  are 
genuine,  honest,  and  human.  They 
breathe  a  soft  fragrance  and  a  beauty— 
a  something  greater  and  broader  and 
deeper  than  the  tender  words  of  a 
father;  between  the  lines  one  can  feel 
the  throb  of  a  mother's  heart. 

In  his  work  as  a  poet  of  childhood, 
there  is  always  manifest  that  rare  and 
subtle,  sympathetic  power  to  touch  the 
heart  and  to  moisten  the  eye — that 
wondrous  simple  touch  that  first  makes 
the  reader  think,  and  then  to  quiver, 
[xii  ] 


The      Children's      Poet 

and  finally  to  aspirate  a  sweet,  delicious 
sigh.  And  there  lies  the  secret  of  his 
power  as  a  poet  of  childhood.  His 
verses  have  a  sympathy,  a  warmth,  and 
a  genuineness  that  cannot  fail  to  open 
up  the  secret  springs  of  memory  and 
make  us  live  again  the  joyous  days  of 
our  happy  youth.  True  children,  as 
fresh  and  pure  as  the  flowers  of  the 
hillside,  caper  and  romp  and  coo  and 
pray  throughout  his  verse. 

Only  a  master  hand,  influenced  by  a 
great  soul,  could  have  written  those  two 
particular  touches  of  child  life,  "Little 
Boy  Blue"  and  "  Wynken,  Blynken,  and 
Nod."  The  former  in  its  gentle  realism 
tells  of 


EUGENE      FIELD: 

"  The  touch  of  a  little  hand 
And  the  smile  of  a  little  face  !  " 

while  the  latter,  riotous  in  romanticism, 
takes  the  children 

"  Sailing  off  in  a  wooden  shoe  !  " 

It  will  be  many  years  before  our 
memories  become  dulled  to  the  de 
lights  of  "The  Sugar-  Plum  Tree", 
which  flourished  in  Shut-Eye  Town, 
or  to  the  fascinating  charms  of  "The 
Naughty  Doll",  whose  fond  mistress 
loved  to 

"  Dress  her  up  and  curl  her  hair 
And  feed  her  taffy  candy  !  " 

Our  hard,  indifferent,  mercenary 
hearts,  calloused  by  a  false  and  too 


xv 


The      Children^      Poet 

rapid  civilization,  must  ache  afresh  at 
"  Pitty-pat  and  Tippy- toe  "  as  we  re 
call  with  flooded  eyes  those  sweet  days 
long  ago,  when  we,  too,  found  many  a 
childish  hurt  to  soothe  and 

"  Many  a  little  bump  to  kiss  !  " 

And  in  ages  yet  to  come,  a  million 
mothers,  some  worn  and  tired,  grown 
old  before  their  time,  will  linger  tear 
fully  and  hug  closely  to  their  trembling 
hearts 

"  A  little  sock  of  faded  hue, 
A  little  lock  of  golden  hair" 

and  kiss  the  printed  page  containing 
"Christmas  Treasures";  for  next  to 
God's  eternal  Love  comes  mother  love 


EUGENE      FIELD: 

and  father  love,  and  he  who  loves  the 
children  cannot  hate  his  God;  and  he 
who  writes  immortal  words  of  children 
and  of  love  is  near  to  that  Almighty 
Throb  which  makes  the  world  go 
'round. 

Good-night,  Eugene,  but  not  farewell  ; 

Although  Life's  sun  for  thee  hath  set, 
In  hearts  of  millions  long  will  dwell 

Thy  kindly  light.     We'll  not  forget 
The  tender,  gentle  touch  —  the  charm, 

The  grace  and  pathos  of  thy  pen  ; 
Good-night,  sweet  soul  of  Sabine  farm, 

Belov'd  of  children  and  of  men. 

WILL  M.  CLEMENS. 
NEW  YORK,  1901. 


xv 


THE    STARS: 

A  SLUMBER 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

A  VERY  wondrous  thing  happened 
the  other  night;  I  will  tell  you 
about  it.  Dady  is  a  little  boy  who 
is  hardly  more  than  three  years  old. 
Every  night  when  his  mamma  puts 
him  to  bed,  she  sits  beside  him  and 
sings  to  him  till  he  is  fast  asleep.  The 
other  night  Dady's  mamma  had  tucked 
him  up  nice  and  snug  in  his  bed,  and 
had  heard  him  repeat  his  little  prayer, 
when  Dady  said:  "What  will  you  sing 
about  to-night,  mamma?" 

"What  would  you  like  to  have  me 
sing  about?"  asked  mamma. 

"Sing  about  the  bears  and  lions," 
said  Dady. 

Mamma    laughed    heartily.      "Why 


THE  STARS :  A  Slumber  Story 

Dady,"  said  she,  "what  do  I  know 
about  bears  and  lions?  No,  I  will  sing 
a  little  hushaby  about  the  stars.  When 
I  was  a  little  girl  my  mamma  used  to 
sing  it  to  me.  Would  you  like  to 
hear  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dady. 

"Then  you  must  shut  your  eyes  and 
be  very  still,"  said  mamma. 

So  Dady  closed  his  eyes,  and  was 
very  quiet  while  his  mamma  sang  this 
little  lullaby: 

Cradle  Song 

The  twinkling  stars,  that  stud  the  skies 

Throughout  the  quiet  night, 
Are  only  precious  little  eyes 

Of  babies  fair  and  bright ; 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

For,  when  the  babies  are  asleep, 

An  angel  comes  and  takes 
Their  little  eyes  to  guard  and  keep 

Until  the  morning  breaks. 
So,  in  the  sky  and  on  the  earth, 

Those  little  eyes  divine, 
With  quiet  love  and  twinkling  mirth, 

Through  all  the  darkness  shine. 
The  golden  and  majestic  moon 

Beholds  these  baby  eyes, 
And,  mother-like,  she  loves  to  croon 

Her  softest  lullabies, 

Her  gentlest  hushabies. 

The  tiny  flow'rs  the  baby  knew 

Throughout  the  noisy  day, 
Now  ope  their  blossoms  to  the  dew 

And,  smiling,  seem  to  say  : 
"  We  know  you,  stars,  serene  and  small, 

Up  yonder  in  the  skies — 
You  are  no  little  stars  at  all — 

You're  only  baby  eyes  !  " 
[  3  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

The  lambkins  scamper  to  and  fro 

And  chase  the  night  away. 
For  they  are  full  of  joy  to  know 

The  stars  behold  their  play. 
The  wind  goes  dancing,  free  and  light, 

O'er  tree  and  hilltop  high. 
And  murmurs  all  the  happy  night 

The  sweetest  lullaby, 

The  gentlest  hushaby. 

So  let  thy  little  eyelids  close 

Like  flow'rs  at  set  of  sun. 
And  tranquil  be  thy  soul's  repose, 

My  precious  weary  one  ! 
The  still  and  melancholy  night 

Is  envious  of  thine  eyes, 
And  longs  to  see  their  glorious  light 

In  yonder  azure  skies. 
The  daisies  wonder  all  the  while 

Why  all  is  dark  above, 
And  clamor  for  the  radiant  smile 

Of  little  orbs  they  love  ; 
[4  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

And,  lo  !  an  angel  hovers  near 

To  bear  thine  eyes  on  high. 
So  sleep,  my  babe,  if  thou  would'st  hear 

The  music  of  the  sky — 

Sweet  nature's  hushaby. 

Scarcely  had  Dady's  mamma  finished 
this  song  when  the  wondrous  thing  of 
which  we  spoke  a  few  moments  ago 
happened.  Dady  opened  his  eyes  to  see 
the  lambkins  playing  in  the  meadows, 
when,  lo  !  at  his  side,  where  his  mam 
ma  had  been  sitting  but  a  moment 
before,  there  stood  a  beautiful  angel, 
with  the  whitest  wings  and  the  sweetest 
smile  Dady  ever  saw.  Dady  was  not 
frightened  the  least  bit. 

"Shut  your  eyes,  little  Dady,"  said 
[  5] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

the  Angel,  "  for  I  want  to  put  them  up 
in  the  sky  for  stars." 

"  Oh,  but  it  will  hurt,"  said  Dady. 

"No,  it  will  not  hurt,"  said  the 
angel,  and  Dady  believed  the  angel, 
because  angels  always  tell  the  truth. 

Then  Dady  closed  his  eyes,  and,  will 
you  believe  it?  the  angel  put  his  hands 
on  Dady's  eyes  and  took  them  right 
out  of  Dady's  head,  and  it  never  hurt 
Dady  at  all.  No,  it  felt  rather  nice 
than  otherwise,  for  Dady's  body  at  once 
fell  into  a  sound  sleep,  while  Dady's 
eyes  became  wider  awake  than  ever  be 
fore,  and  could  see  very  plainly  the 
smallest  things  in  the  world.  Out  of 
the  window,  away  over  the  housetops, 
[  6] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

and  up  into  the  sky  flew  the  angel  with 
Dady's  eyes,  and  Dady  was  not  fright 
ened,  because  the  angel  was  very  kind 
and  gentle. 

"  Will  he  really  put  us  in  the  sky  ? " 
thought  the  eyes.  "  It  certainly  will 
seem  very  new  and  strange  to  look 
down  on  the  world  from  away  up  there." 

But  before  Dady's  eyes  knew  what 
was  being  done  with  them,  they  were 
put  fast  in  the  blue  sky,  right  between 
two  pairs  of  eyes  Dady  thought  he  had 
seen  before. 

"  Whose  eyes  are  you  ?  "  asked  Dady. 

"  Why,  we  are  Susie's  eyes,"  said  the 
little  brown  stars.  , 

"  And  whose  eyes  are  you  ? "  asked 
[7  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

Dady,  turning  to  the  little  sparklers  on 
the  other  side. 

"We  are  Trotty's  eyes,"  replied  the 
little  blue  eyes. 

"Then  I  am  not  frightened,"  said 
Dady. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  Susie  eyes,  "  there 
is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  up  here  in 
the  soft,  kindly  sky.  It  is  really  very 
charming." 

"  Don't  you  see  how  cool  and  pleas 
ant  it  is  ? "  asked  the  Trotty  eyes. 
"  Really  this  is  much  nicer  than  the 
close,  heated  air  down  near  the  earth." 

So  they  talked.  And  there  were 
thousands  and  thousands  of  other  little 
eyes  doing  service  as  stars  all  around 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

them.  There  were  blue  eyes  and  black 
eyes,  and  brown  eyes  and  hazel  eyes, 
and  among  others  there  was  a  pair  of 
beautiful  little  golden  eyes  which  Dady 
fell  quite  in  love  with.  They  were 
Louisa's  eyes,  and  they  were  very  sweet, 
for  Louisa  herself  was  a  very  good 
little  girl. 

"  What  is  that  music  we  hear  ? "  asked 
the  Louisa  eyes. 

Dady  listened,  and  surely  enough  he 
heard  the  most  beautiful  music  sweep 
ing  along  through  the  air  beneath. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  can  be  ?"  queried 
the  Trotty  eyes.  "  We  never  heard 
such  sweet  sounds  before." 

"Oh,  that  is  the  song  of  the  night 
[9] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

wind,"  said  a  pair  of  older  eyes  that  had 
been  stars  many  times.  "Let  us  listen 
and  hear  what  the  song  is  about." 

So  the  eyes  all  kept  very  quiet  and 
listened  to  the  night  wind  as  it  sang 
this  song: 

The  Rose  and  the  Iceberg 

I  hasten  from  the  land  of  snows, 

Where  sunbeams  dance  and  quiver, 
Unto  the  dwelling  of  a  rose, 

Hard  by  a  southern  river. 
An  iceberg  loves  the  blooming  thing, 

But  she  will  pay  no  heeding 
Unto  the  splendid  polar  king, 

Nor  to  his  piteous  pleading. 

Abashed  that  she  is  hostile  to 

His  amorous  pursuing, 
The  iceberg  wills  that  I  should  go 

To  do  his  kingly  wooing. 

[   10  1 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

He  bids  me  lure  her  from  her  tree, 
And  from  her  balmy  places ; 

And  bear  her  swiftly  back  with  me 
Unto  his  fond  embraces. 

So,  swiftly  o'er  the  mountains  high, 

And  through  the  forests  gloomy, 
Unto  the  distant  vale  I  fly 

To  win  this  blossom  to  me. 
To-morrow  evening  shall  I  ride — 

More  merrisome  and  faster — 
For  I  shall  bear  the  blooming  bride 

Back  to  my  kingly  master. 

"What  is  it  all  about?"  asked  the 
Dady  eyes. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  the 
Louisa  eyes. 

"  It  is  about  a  great,  cold  iceberg  that 
loves  a  rose,"  explained  the  Trotty  eyes; 
"but  the  rose  does  not  love  the  iceberg, 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

so  the  night  wind  is  going  to  steal 
the  rose  and  take  her  to  the  iceberg's 
palace." 

The  Dady  eyes  did  not  seem  to  under 
stand  all  this  sentiment,  and  were  going 
to  make  further  inquiries,  when  the 
Susie  eyes  asked,  "  Can  you  see  the  big 
city  away  down  yonder?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  Trotty  eyes, 
"and  we  can  see  the  house  where  we 
live  during  the  day." 

"And  can  we  see  our  mamma?" 
asked  the  Dady  eyes. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  Trotty  eyes. 
"Look  hard,  and  you  will  see  her  fast 
asleep  in  bed.  See,  she  is  smiling." 

"I  can  see  her,"  said  an  ugly  old 
[  12  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

spook  that  came  buzzing  through  the 
air;  "and  I  know  why  she  is  smiling. 
Listen : 

There's  a  joyous  smile  on  her  features,  while 
The  moon  through  the  lattice  streams, 

And  fancies  roll  through  her  somnolent  soul 
And  sweet  are  her  fevered  dreams — 

The  dreams 
With  which  her  slumber  teems. 

There  are  tomes  of  guile  in  her  tranquil  smile 

That  basks  in  the  moon's  caress — 
She  dreams  of  a  gown  that's  the  talk  of  the 

town — 

That's  easy  enough  to  guess- 
On,  yes, 
She  dreams  of  a  new  silk  dress  !  " 

"For   shame!"  cried   the  star  eyes. 
"As  if  a  mother  ever  could  dream  of 
[  '3  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

such  things!  No;  when  a  mother 
smiles  in  her  sleep,  she  dreams  of  her 
little  one." 

And  for  his  abominable  heresy,  the 
ugly  old  spook  was  condemned  to  marry 
an  owl  and  live  in  the  hollow  of  a 
dead  tree. 

"Baa — baa,"  bleated  a  little  lamb  in 
the  meadow.  It  had  lost  its  way  among 
the  high  grass  and  flowers,  and  was 
bleating  for  its  mother. 

"Poor  little  lamb — it  has  lost  its 
way,"  said  the  Louisa  eyes. 

"Can  we  not  help  it?"  said  the  Susie 
eyes.  "  Suppose  we  all  shine  as  hard 
as  ever  we  can,  and  then  maybe  it  will 
see  its  way  to  its  mamma." 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

So  all  the  little  star  eyes  shone  with 
all  their  might,  and,  startled  by  the 
sudden  light,  the  mother  sheep  sprang 
from  her  slumbers  and  called  to  her 
little  one.  Then  the  little  lamb  heard 
her  voice  and  hastened  to  her  side.  It 
made  the  star  eyes  very  happy  to  know 
they  had  done  the  little  lamb  such  a 
kindly  service.  Then  all  the  flock  on 
the  meadow  got  together,  and  the  wise 
old  mother  sheep  gathered  around  in  a 
circle  and  watched  the  little  lambs  at 
play  in  the  midst  of  the  circle.  It  was 
a  lively  sight.  On  the  meadow  grew 
a  daisy  which  the  lambs  loved  very 
dearly  because  it  was  beautiful  and 
gentle.  Now,  it  happened  that  this 
[  '5  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

daisy  stood  right  in  the  centre  of  the 
circle  where  the  lambs  played  that 
night. 

"Oh,  come,"  said  one  little  lamb, 
whose  name  was  Kinky,  "come,  let  us 
have  some  fun  with  the  daisy.  Let  us 
see  if  we  can  leap  over  its  head." 

"For  mercy's  sake,"  cried  the  daisy, 
"do  not  strike  me  with  your  feet  or 
you  will  crush  me!" 

"Have  no  fears,"  said  Kinky,  "for 
we  love  you  too  much  to  harm  you." 

Then  the  fun  began.  Kinky  led  the 
race,  and  leaped  over  the  daisy,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  lambs  followed  in  one, 
two,  three  fashion,  and  so  the  sport 
continued  until  the  little  lambs  were 
[  16  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

all  worn  out  with  play,  and  the  mother 
sheep  were  nearly  dead  with  laughter. 
And  the  daisy  cried :  "  Now,  really,  you 
must  rest  awhile,  and  as  for  me,  I  must 
open  my  little  mouths  and  take  good, 
long  drinks  of  cool  dew,  for  I  am  very 
thirsty." 

"  Yes,"  said  an  old  grandma  sheep, 
"you  little  lambs  should  go  to  bed. 
Lie  down  on  the  green  grass  close  to 
your  mothers  while  I  sing  you  to 
sleep." 

They  were  very  obedient  little  lambs. 
They  cuddled  up  to  their  big,  warm 
mothers,  and  fell  asleep  to  the  song  of 
the  old  grandma  sheep,  which  song  was 
something  like  this: 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 
A  Hushaby 

Ba-ba,  baby  sheep, 

Chill  and  sombre  grows  the  night — 
Only  stars  from  heaven's  height 
Shed  on  us  their  golden  light — 

Ba-ba,  go  to  sleep — 

Go  to  sleep,  baby  sheep ! 

Ba-ba,  baby  sheep — 

Never  mind  the  goblin's  growl — 
Never  heed  the  hoodoo's  howl — 
Let  the  hippogriffin  prowl — 

Ba-ba,  mother'll  keep 

Watch  over  baby  sheep! 

Ba-ba,  baby  sheep — 

Up  above,  serene  and  far, 
Beams  a  tiny  golden  star 
Listening  to  the  ba-ba 
I  am  singing  to  the  sheep, 
As  they  rock  the  lambs  to  sleep. 
[   18  ] 


THE  STARS :  A  Slumber  Story 

"We  can  understand  that  song,"  said 
the  Dady  eyes,  "and  we  like  it  very 
much.  On  the  whole,  we  think  it  is 
very  pleasant  up  here  in  the  sky." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Louisa  eyes,  "it  is 
much  better  to  be  shining  upon  the 
world  up  here  than  to  be  slumbering 
in  our  quiet  cribs  at  home." 

Then  a  pair  of  the  older  eyes  ex 
plained  that  if  the  children  were  good 
all  day  on  earth,  their  eyes  would  surely 
be  set  in  the  sky  for  stars.  Dady's 
eyes  and  Louisa's  and  Trotty's  and  all 
the  rest  at  once  made  a  solemn  de 
termination  that  they  always  would 
be  good. 

About  this  time  the  star  eyes  saw  a 
[  19  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

number  of  fleecy  objects  sailing  along 
through  the  sky  in  their  direction. 

"They  must  be  swans,"  said  the 
Susie  eyes. 

"  Oh,  what  lovely  creatures !  "  shouted 
the  star  eyes  in  chorus. 

But  no,  they  were  simply  clouds; 
but  they  sailed  along  like  majestic  birds 
of  passage. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  demanded 
the  Trotty  eyes. 

"Would  you  like  to  hear  our  song?" 
inquired  the  clouds. 

"Indeed,  we  would,"  answered  the 
star  eyes  in  one  voice. 

"Then  listen,"  said  the  clouds;  "we 
cannot  stay  long,  for  we  are  in  great 

[    20    ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

haste,     as     you    will     hear     from     our 
song." 

The  star  eyes  paid  close  attention, 
and  the  clouds,  as  they  decreased  their 
speed,  joined  in  this  pretty  little  song: 

Song  of  the  Clouds 

Far,  far  beyond  yon  Eastern  steeps 
There  is  an  humble  little  cot, 
And  in  that  homely,  lonely  spot 

A  mother  prays  and  weeps. 

Be  calm,  dear  one ,  the  Father  hears 
Thy  softest  plaint  and  faintest  sigh, 
And  He  hath  bless'd  thy  pray'rful  cry 

And  sanctified  thy  tears. 

And  He  hath  sent  us  clouds  to  bear 
Thy  mother's  tears,  in  form  of  rain, 
Unto  the  distant  desert  plain, 

To  cool  the  desert  air. 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

The  fainting  youth  will  feel  our  breath 
Upon  his  bronzed  and  fevered  face, 
And    have    new    strength    to    leave    that 
place — 

That  arid  haunt  of  death. 

The  mother  heart  need  not  despair — 
To-morrow  eve  the  son  shall  rest 
Upon  that  mother's  joyful  breast, 

For  God  hath  heard  her  pray'r. 

So,  gentle  stars,  stay  not  our  flight — 
A  mother's  tears,  in  form  of  rain, 
We  bear  unto  that  distant  plain 

Where  faints  a  son  to-night. 

The  star  eyes  were  much  pleased 
with  this  song,  and  they  would  have 
asked  the  clouds  to  sing  all  the  night, 
but  that  would  have  been  very  wrong. 

"No,  we  must  not  detain  them,  for 
they  are  sailing  on  an  errand  of  kind- 
[  22  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

ness  and  mercy,"  said  a  pair  of  the 
older  of  the  star  eyes. 

Then  the  clouds  flew  swiftly  on 
their  journey,  in  search  of  the  weep 
ing  mother's  wandering  son,  singing  as 
they  went,  and  accompanied  through 
all  their  journey  by  the  tenderest  wishes 
of  the  little  star  eyes. 

"Speed  on,  speed  on,  O  dear  clouds," 
cried  the  star  eyes,  "and  bear  strength 
to  the  distant  traveller  son  that  he  may 
come  to  the  mother  ere  her  heart  break." 

As  you  may  easily  imagine,  the 
night  was  now  pretty  well  along.  The 
moon  came  up  in  the  eastern  horizon, 
looking  very  red  and  fretful  at  first,  but 
as  soon  as  she  saw  the  star  eyes  waiting 
[  23  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

for  her,  she  became  as  smiling  and  com 
placent  as  you  please.  Then  the  Dady 
eyes  saw  that  the  moon  was  not,  as 
many  foolish  children  believe,  a  huge 
green  cheese,  but  a  huge  ball  of  fire — 
not  the  kind  of  fire  that  burns,  but  a 
soft  and  luminous  and  perfectly  harm 
less  fire  into  which  a  child  might  thrust 
his  hand  without  being  singed. 

"Aha,"  quoth  the  moon,  cheerily, 
"you  are  all  here,  my  pretty  friends!" 

"Welcome,  dear  moon,"  cried  the 
star  eyes;  "but  why  are  you  so  late 
to-night?" 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  had  a  dreadful  time," 
said  the  moon.  "I  have  been  all  the 
way  to  China  since  I  left  you  last  night, 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

and  I  have  seen  the  most  terrible  sight 
— ough ! " 

And  the  moon  shivered  so  mightily 
that  she  came  very  near  shaking  all  the 
little  star  eyes  out  of  their  places. 

"What  was  this  terrible  sight?" 
asked  the  star  eyes,  opening  themselves 
to  their  widest  capacity  in  an  excite 
ment  of  expectancy. 

"It  was  the  'Fate  of  the  Princess 
Ming,'  as  I  call  it,"  replied  the  moon, 
"for  I  have  arranged  the  story  in  a 
song,  which  I  will  sing  you  if  you  wish." 

"Oh,  do  sing  it!"  cried  the  star 
eyes  in  unison,  "  for  we  are  very  anxious 
to  hear  it." 

Then  the  moon  hemmed  and  hawed 
[  25  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

and  cleared  her  throat  and  sang  in  very 
dulcet  tones  this  sad,  sad  ballad: 

The  Princess  Ming 

There  was  a  prince  by  the  name  of  Tsing 

Who  lived  in  the  Chinese  town  of  Lung 
And  fell  in  love  with  the  Princess  Ming 
Who  lived  in   the   neighboring  town  of 
Jung; 

'Twas  a  terrible  thing 
For  Tsing  and  Ming, 
As  you'll  allow,  when  you've  heard  me  sing. 

Now  it  happened  so  that  the  town  of  Lung, 
Where  lived  the  prince  who  longed  to  woo, 
Went  out  to  war  with  the  town  of  Jung 
With  junks  and  swords  and  matchlocks, 
too — 

'Twas  a  terrible  thing 
For  Tsing  and  Ming, 

As  you'll  allow,  when  you've  heard  me  sing. 
[  26  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

Miss  Ming's  papa  was  eating  rice 

On  yestermorn  at  half-past  eight, 
And  had  carved  a  pie  composed  of  mice, 
When  the  soldiers  knocked  at  his  palace 
gate; 

They  were  led  by  Tsing, 
And  they  called  for  Ming, 
Which  all  will  allow  was  a  terrible  thing  ! 

Miss  Ming's  papa  girt  on  his  sword — 

"  For  this,"  quoth  he,  "  I'll  have  his  gore  !  " 
In  vain  the  Princess  Ming  implored — 
In  vained  she  swooned  on  the  palace  floor — 
The  Princess  Ming 
Who  was  wooed  of  Tsing 
Could  not  prevail  with  the  gruff  old  King ! 

The  old  King  opened  the  palace  gate 
And  in  marched  Tsing  with  his  soldiers 

grim, 
And  the  King  smote  Tsing  on  his  princely 

pate — 

Stating  this  stern  rebuke  to  him  : 
[  27  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 


"  It's  a  fatal  thing 

For  you,  Mr.  Tsing, 
To  come  a-courting  the  Princess  Ming !  " 

The  prince  most  keenly  felt  this  slight, 
But    still    more    keenly    the    cut    on    his 

head; 

So,  suddenly  turning  cold  and  white, 
He  fell  to  the  earth  and  lay  there  dead. 
Which  act  of  the  King 
To  the  handsome  Tsing 
Was  a  brutal  shock  to  the  Princess  Ming. 

No  sooner  did  the  young  prince  die 

Than     Princess    Ming    from    the    palace 

flew, 

And  jumped  straight  into  the  River  Ji, 
With    the    dreadful    purpose    of    dying, 
too! 

'Twas  a  natural  thing 
For  the  Princess  Ming 
To  do  for  love  of  the  handsome  Tsing  ! 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

And  when  she  leaped  in  the  River  Ji, 

And  gasped  and  choked  till  her  face  was  blue, 
A  crocodile  fish  came  paddling  by 
And  greedily  bit  Miss  Ming  in  two — 
The  horrid  old  thing 
Devoured  Miss  Ming, 
Who  had  hoped  to  die  for  the  love  of  Tsing. 

When  the  King  observed  her  life  adjourned, 
By  the  crocodile's  biting  the  girl  in  twain, 
Up  to  the  ether  his  toes  he  turned, 

With  a  ghastly  rent  in  his  jugular  vein  ; 
So  the  poor  old  King, 
And  Tsing,  and  Ming 
Were  dead  and  gone — what  a  terrible  thing  ! 

And  as  for  the  crocodile  fish  that  had 

Devoured  Miss  Ming  in  this  off-hand  way, 
He  caught  the  dyspepsy  so  dreadful  bad 
That  he,  too,  died  that  very  day  ! 
So,  now,  with  the  King, 
And  Tsing,  and  Ming, 
And  the  crocodile  dead,  what  more  can  I  sing  ? 
09  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

"What  a  dreadful  song  !  "  said  the 
Dady  eyes.  "I  never  heard  anything 
half  so  terrible  !  " 

"Poor  princess,"  sighed  the  Trotty 
eyes,  "  how  she  must  have  loved  the 
prince! " 

"  I  became  so  much  interested  in  the 
affair,"  explained  the  moon,  "that  I 
overstayed  my  time  in  China  by  half 
an  hour  and  that  is  why  I  am  tardy 
to-night." 

"Can  we  go  to  China  some  time?" 
asked  the  Dady  eyes.  "We  want  to 
see  the  crocodile  bite  a  princess  in  two !  " 

At  this  dreadful  suggestion  the  other 
star  eyes  shuddered  and  the  moon 
frowned  severely. 

C  30] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

"  How  can  you  want  to  see  such  a 
dreadful  sight?"  asked  the  moon,  re 
proachfully.  "No,  you  cannot  go  to 
China — at  least  not  while  you  are  Baby 
eyes.  For  what  would  the  sky  do  with 
out  you  all  the  dark  night,  and  how 
dreary  the  earth  would  be  without 
your  kindly  smiles  and  cheering  rays?" 

The  Dady  eyes  concluded  that  the 
moon  was  right,  although  they  were 
unwilling  to  concede  that  it  would  not 
be  an  interesting  experience  to  see  a 
crocodile  bite  a  beautiful  princess  in  two. 

"Now,    little    star    eyes,"    said    the 
moon,   "if  you  all  will  be  very  quiet 
I  will  call  to  the  elves  to  come  out  and 
dance  upon  the  meadow." 
[3'  ] 


THE  STARS :  *A  Slumber  Story 

"Oh,  what  are  elves?"  eagerly  in 
quired  the  Dady  eyes. 

"They  are  the  tiniest  little  creatures 
in  the  world,"  said  the  moon;  "they 
are  little  men  and  women  who  live  in 
the  flowers  and  under  the  bark  of 
the  trees." 

"Pray  do  call  out  the  elves!"  shouted 
the  star  eyes. 

The  moon  accordingly  pitched  her 
voice  in  a  tuneful  key  and  sang  this 
invocation  : 

An  Elfin  Summons 

From  the  flow'rs  and  from  the  trees 
Come,  O  tiny  midnight  elves, 

And,  to  music  of  the  breeze, 
Merrily  disport  yourselves. 
[  32  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

Harnessing  the  glow-worm's  wing, 

Drive  the  glow-worm  for  your  steed, 
Or  with  crickets  dance  and  sing 

On  the  velvet,  perfumed  mead. 
Forth  from  pretty  blue-bells  creep 

To  coquette  with  starlight  gleam — 
See,  the  lambkins  are  asleep 

And  the  daisies  sleeping  dream. 
Hasten  to  engage  yourselves 
In  your  frolics,  midnight  elves  ! 

See,  a  toad  with  jewelled  eyes 

Comes  and  croaks  his  homely  song 
To  the  spider  as  she  plies 

Her  deft  spinning  all  night  long  ; 
See  the  bat  with  rustling  wings 

Darting  nervously  above — 
Hear  the  cricket  as  she  sings 

To  her  little  violet  love. 
All  the  goblins  are  asleep 

And  no  flimflam  hovers  near, 

[  33  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

So  from  out  the  posies  creep 

With  your  Elfin  ladies  dear  ; 
Merrily  disport  yourselves, 
Frisky  little  midnight  elves  ! 

Hardly  had  the  moon  finished  this 
curious  song  when  the  meadow  was 
peopled  with  myriads  of  the  tiniest 
little  ladies  and  gentlemen  the  star  eyes 
ever  had  seen.  Each  of  these  people 
was  no  larger  than  the  smallest  cambric 
needle,  yet  all  were  so  symmetrically 
proportioned  that  they  were  to  all  in 
tents  human  beings. 

"  If  you  were  not  star  eyes  you  would 
not  see  them  at  all,"  explained  the 
moon. 

Most  of  the  elves  came  from  the 
[  34  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

blossoms  of  flowers,  some  crept  from 
out  the  tufts  of  grass,  while  others 
emerged  from  the  loose  bark  of  the 
trees,  and  others  still  leaped  down  from 
the  chinks  and  crevices  of  the  stone 
wall  that  surrounded  the  meadow. 
They  gamboled  gleefully  over  the  wet 
and  shining  grass,  and  played  every 
variety  of  prank  known  to  merry  little 
people.  The  attentive  star  eyes  could 
see  that  these  curious  people  were  ex 
ceedingly  pretty  to  look  upon,  that 
their  raiment  was  of  the  most  elegant 
material,  and  that  they  were  the  very 
personification  of  nimbleness  and  grace. 
Their  king  appeared  to  be  one  whom 
they  called  Piccolo.  He  was  a  beauti- 
[  35  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

ful  little  creature,  with  the  merriest  and 
tiniest  blue  eyes,  the  silkiest  golden 
hair,  and  the  most  musical  voice  imagi 
nable.  He  wore  a  robe  woven  by  six 
silver  spiders;  this  robe  was  lined  with 
down  from  the  skin  of  a  maiden  peach, 
and  it  was  fastened  with  buttons  of  pearl 
no  larger  than  gnats'  eyes.  Piccolo's 
hat  was  a  violet  leaf,  and  his  shoes  were 
manufactured  of  the  pelt  of  a  baby  dor 
mouse.  He  was  a  very  dainty  little 
object. 

"  Let  us  awaken  the  lambkins,"  cried 
Piccolo,  as  he  nimbly  climbed  a  daisy 
stalk  and  dexterously  swung  himself 
upon  the  back  of  the  little  lamb  that 
was  named  Kinky. 

[  36] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

His  blithesome  little  subjects  fol 
lowed  his  example. 

"  Ba-a-a,"  moaned  Kinky,  in  his 
sleep,  for  he  dreamed  he  was  beset  by 
ugly  gnomes,  who  were  shearing  his 
fleece. 

"Wake  up,  little  Kinky!"  shouted 
Piccolo  in  Kinky's  ear. 

Kinky  leaped  to  his  feet,  vastly  be 
wildered. 

"  Ba-a-a  !  "  cried  Kinky.  "What  is 
all  this  hubbub?" 

"  It  is  I,  Piccolo,"  said  Piccolo,  in 
assuring  tones.  "We  have  come  to 
play  with  you  by  moonlight." 

"  Yes,  wake  up,  Kinky,"  chimed  in 
the  daisy,  "and  let  me  see  how  fast 

r  37  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

you  can  run  with  all  those  little  elves 
on  your  back." 

Kinky  took  very  kindly  to  the  idea. 
So  he  got  his  companions  together,  and 
proposed  that  they  have  a  race  to  the 
brook  at  the  lower  end  of  the  meadow 
and  back  again.  Each  lambkin  was  to 
carry  three  hundred  elves  on  his  back, 
and  the  lamb  that  ran  first  to  the 
brook  and  first  home  again  was  to 
have  a  prize  of  three  white  clover 
blossoms. 

Well,  it  was  great  sport.  Piccolo, 
his  court,  and  more  than  two  hundred 
of  his  faithful  subjects  rode  Kinky,  and 
the  other  lambs  carried  their  burdens 
quite  as  willingly.  The  daisy  was  the 
[  38] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

time-keeper,  and  when  she  said  the 
word,  away  frisked  the  lambkins  amid 
the  laughter  of  the  elves,  who  clung 
very  tight  to  the  fleece  of  their  flying 
steeds.  Gracious!  how  fast  those  lamb 
kins  did  run — it  almost  took  the  breath 
away  from  the  elves.  Over  moss  and 
violet  and  grass  they  sped,  over  clover 
bloom  and  trailing  vine  and  ripening 
berry.  "Ba-a-a,"  cried  the  lambkins 
in  chorus,  while  the  elves  screamed  ex 
citedly,  and  held  on  tighter  than  ever. 
The  brook  heard  them  coming. 

"Mercy  on    us! — what  can   be    the 

matter?"  wondered  the  brook,  but  the 

next    moment  the  lambkins  and  elves 

were  at  the  bank,  and  the  brook  saw 

[  39  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

that  it  was  his  little  friends  who  were 
making  all  this  clatter. 

"Stay  awhile  and  hear  my  song," 
said  the  brook. 

"Shall  we?"  inquired  the  lambkins 
of  each  other. 

"Yes,  let  us  stay  and  hear  it,"  quoth 
the  elves. 

So  the  lambkins  tarried  to  hear  the 
song  of  the  brook,  which  was  some 
what  as  follows  : 

A  Brook  Song 

I'm  hastening  from  the  distant  hills 
With  swift  and  noisy  flowing, 

Nursed  by  a  thousand  tiny  rills, 
I'm  ever  onward  going. 

The  willows  cannot  stay  my  course, 
With  all  their  pliant  wooing  • 
[  40  ] 


THE  STARS-~4Sfumter  Story 


I  sing  and  sing  till  I  am  hoarse, 

My  prattling  way  pursuing. 
I  kiss  the  pebbles  as  I  pass, 

And  hear  them  say  they  love  me ; 
I  make  obeisance  to  the  grass 

That  kindly  bends  above  me. 
So  onward  through  the  meads  and  dells 

I  hasten,  never  knowing 
The  secret  motive  that  impels, 

Or  whither  I  am  going. 

A  little  child  comes  often  here 

To  watch  my  quaint  commotion, 
As  I  go  tumbling,  swift  and  clear, 

Down  to  the  distant  ocean ; 
And  as  he  plays  upon  my  brink, 

So  thoughtless  like  and  merry, 
And  full  of  noisy  song,  I  think 

The  child  is  like  me,  very. 
Through  all  the  years  of  youthful  play, 

With  ne'er  a  thought  of  sorrow, 
We,  prattling,  speed  upon  our  way, 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 


Unmindful  of  the  morrow  ; 
Aye,  through  these  sunny  meads  and  dells 

We  gambol,  never  trowing 
The  solemn  motive  that  impels, 

Or  whither  we  are  going. 

And  men  come  here  to  say  to  me : 

"  Like  you,  with  weird  commotion, 
O  little  singing  brooklet,  we 

Are  hastening  to  an  ocean  ; 
Down  to  a  vast  and  misty  deep, 

With  fleeting  tears  and  laughter, 
We  go,  nor  rest  until  we  sleep 

In  that  profound  Hereafter. 
What  tides  may  bear  our  souls  along — 

What  monsters  rise  appalling— 
What  distant  shores  may  hear  our  song 

And  answer  to  our  calling  ? 
Ah,  who  can  say  !  through  meads  and  dells 

We  wander,  never  knowing 
The  awful  motive  that  impels, 

Or  whither  we  are  going  !  " 
[42] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

"  Fie,  fie !  "  cried  the  moon  reproach 
fully  ;  "what  a  sorry  song  to  sing  the 
little  folks  when  they  want  to  be  merry." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  sighed  Kinky;  "it 
made  me  feel  very  sad." 

"And  I,"  quoth  Piccolo,  "had  al 
ready  begun  to  weep." 

"  It  is  quite  right  that  little  folks 
should  be  blithesome  and  gay,"  con 
tinued  the  moon,  frowning  upon  the 
brook,  "  but  this  mournful  melody  has 
cast  a  cloud  over  us  all." 

"Speaking  of  mournful  things,"  said 
a  toadstool  which  grew  by  the  brook, 
"reminds  me  of  the  ballad  of  'The 
Bingo  Bird  and  the  Doodledoo.'  I  am 
an  indifferent  vocalist,  but  if  you  would 
[43] 


|THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

like  to  hear    this    strange    narrative,   I 
will  give  it  you  gladly." 

The  lambkins  and  elves  said  they 
would  be  glad  to  hear  the  song  if  it 
were  not  too  melancholic,  and  forth 
with  the  toadstool,  having  borrowed 
the  cricket's  tuning-fork,  pitched  his 
voice  in  the  proper  key  and  sang  as 
follows : 

The   Dismal   Dole   of  the 
Doodledoo 

A  bingo  bird  once  nestled  her  nest 
On  the  lissom  bough  of  an  I  O  yew, 

Hard  by  a  burrow  that  was  possess'd 
Of  a  drear  and  dismal  doodledoo. 

Eftsoons  this  doodledoo  descried 
The  blithe  and  beautiful  bingo  bird, 

[  44  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 


He  vowed  he'd  woo  her  to  be  his  bride 

With  many  a  sleek  and  winsome  word. 
"Oh,  doo  !  oh,  doo  !"  sang  the  doodledoo 
To  the  bingo  bird  in  the  yarrish  yew. 

Now  a  churlish  chit  was  the  bingo  bird, 
Though  her  plumes  were  plumes  of  car 
dinal  hue, 
And  she  smithered  a  smirk  whenever  she 

heard 

The  tedious  yawp  of  the  doodledoo; 
For  she  loved,  alas  !   a  subtile  snaix, 

Which  had  a  sting  at  the  end  of  his  tail 
And  lived  in  a  tarn  of  sedge  and  brakes 

On  the  murky  brink  of  a  gruesome  swaiL 
"Oh,  doo  !  oh,  doo  !"  moaned  the  doodledoo, 
As  dimmer  and  danker  each  day  he  grew. 

Now,  when  this  doodledoo  beheld 
The  snaix  go  wooing  the  bingo  bird, 

With  envious  rancor  his  bosom  swelled — 
His  soul  with  bitter  remorse  was  stirred. 

[  45  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 


And  a  flubdub  said  to  the  doodledoo, 
"  The  subtile  snaix  isn't  toting  square — 

I  tell  no  tales — but  if  I  were  you, 
I'd  stop  his  courting  the  bingo  fair ! 

Aye,  marry,  come  up,  I'd  fain  imbrue, 

If  I  were  only  a  doodledoo  !" 

These  burning  words  which  the  flubdub  said 

Inflamed  the  reptile's  tortured  soul 
Till  the  bristles  rose  on  his  livid  head, 

And  his  slimy  tongue  began  for  to  roll ; 
His  skin  turned  red  and  his  fangs  turned  black 

And  his  eyes  exuded  a  pool  of  tears, 
And  the  scales  stood  up  on  his  bony  back, 

And  fire  oozed  out  of  his  nose  and  ears  ! 
Oh,  he  was  a  terrible  sight  to  view — 
This  fierce  and  vengeful  doodledoo  ! 

The  very  next  morn,  as  the  bingo  bird 
Was  nursing  her  baby  bingoes  three, 

She  gave  a  start,  for  she  plainly  heard 
An  ominous  sound  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  ! 
[  46  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

Her  keen  eye  lit  on  the  gruesome  brakes, 
From  whence  proceeded  the  hullaballoo — 

And,  lo  and  behold  !  'twas  the  subtile  snaix, 
Busy  at  work  with  the  doodledoo. 

Boo-hoo  !  boo-hoo  !  how  the  feathers  flew, 

When  the  snaix  imbrued  with  the  doodledoo  ! 

They  fought  and  scratched,  and  they  bit  and 
bled, 

Dispensing  gore  and  their  vitals,  too, 
And  never  pausing  till  both  were  dead — 

The  subtile  snaix  and  the  doodledoo  ! 
And  the  bingo  bird — she  didn't  mind, 

But  giving  her  shoulders  a  careless  shrug, 
She  went  the  way  of  her  female  kind, 

And  straightway  wedded  the  straddlebug ! 
And  there  was  nobody  left  to  rue 
The  doom  of  the  snaix  and  the  doodledoo — 
Unless,  mayhap,  'twas  the  I  O  yew. 

"What  silly  verses!"   exclaimed  the 
Trotty  star  eyes. 

[  47  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

"They  do  very  well  for  a  toadstool," 
quoth  the  moon;  "and  they  repeat  a 
very  common  experience,  too.  But 
perhaps  you  are  too  young  yet  to 
understand  the  philosophy  of  even  the 
toadstool  muse." 

"I  know  a  little  love  story,"  said  the 
violet ;  "please  let  me  tell  it  to  you." 

The  Violet's  Love  Story 

Here  died  a  robin  in  the  spring, 

And,  when  he  fluttered  down  to  me, 

I  tried  to  bind  his  broken  wing, 
And  soothe  his  dying  agony. 

I  loved  the  wounded  little  bird — 

And,  though  my  heart  was  full  to  break, 

I  loved  in  silence — ne'er  a  word 

Of  that  dear,  hopeless  love  I  spake. 
[  48  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

I  saw  his  old  companions  bring 
Their  funeral  tributes  to  this  dell ; 

But,  when  they  went,  I  stayed  to  sing 
The  love  I  had  not  dared  to  tell. 

So,  while  the  little  robin  sleeps, 
The  sorrowing  violet  bides  above : 

And  still  she  sings,  as  still  she  weeps, 
A  requiem  to  her  buried  love. 

"Come,  come!"  cried  the  lamb 
Kinky ;  "  it  is  time  for  us  to  start 
back.  Remember,  the  first  of  us  home 
is  to  be  rewarded  with  three  white 
clover  blossoms !  " 

Piccolo  and  the  other  elves  secured 

a  very  tight  hold  on  the  fleece  of  their 

lambkins    and    said    they    were    ready. 

Then   the  solemn    old    toadstool    gave 

[  49  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

the  word,  and  away  the  fleet-footed 
racers  whisked.  It  was  a  more  ex 
citing  run  than  before.  Lickety-split, 
helter-skelter  flew  the  lambkins,  and 
the  night  winds  had  hard  work  keep 
ing  up.  Kinky,  with  Piccolo  and  the 
elfin  court  on  his  back,  was  some  dis 
tance  ahead  of  the  others,  and  seemed 
sure  of  winning  the  race. 

"Hurry,  hurry,  hurry!"  cried  the 
Dady  eyes,  and  Kinky  seemed  to  be 
encouraged  by  the  words,  for  he  gave 
a  tremendous  bound  forward,  and — 

Dady  was  wide  awake  ! 

"  Why,  I  must  have  been  dreaming !  " 
said  Dady. 

It  was  broad  daylight,  and  mamma 
[  So  ] 


THE  STARS:  A  Slumber  Story 

came  in  to  dress  him.      He    told    her 
all  about  his  dream. 

"  But  it  may  not  have  been  a  dream," 
said  Dady's  mamma;  "you  know  the 
old  song  says  the  stars  are  only  good 
little  children's  eyes.  Suppose  you  be 
a  very  good  little  child  to-day,  and  see 
if  the  angel  doesn't  come  again  to-night 
and  put  your  eyes  away  up  in  the  sky 
for  two  bright,  pretty  stars." 


EUGENE  FIELD: 

A  SKETCH 


EUGENE  FIELD: 

A  Sketch 


BORN,    SEPTEMBER    a,    1850 
DIED,     NOVEMBER    4,    1895 


T^UGENE  FIELD,  journalist,  hu 
morist,  and  poet,  was  the  second 
and  oldest  surviving  son  of  Roswell 
Martin  Field  and  Frances  Reed  Field, 
both  natives  of  Windham  County,  Ver 
mont.  The  elder  Field  was  a  distin 
guished  lawyer  in  St.  Louis,  and  an 
accomplished  scholar.  He  was  per 
haps  best  known  as  one  of  the  counsel 
for  Dred  Scott  in  the  famous  slavery 
case. 

While  he  was  yet  a  little  child  of  six 
years,  Eugene's  mother  died  and  he  was 
[  53  ] 


EUGENE   FIELD:    A  Sketch 

placed,  with  his  younger  brother,  in  the 
care  of  his  aunt,  Miss  Mary  French,  of 
Amherst,  Mass.  He  was  fitted  for  col 
lege  by  the  Rev.  James  Tufts,  and  at 
seventeen  years  of  age  he  entered  Wil 
liams  College.  Upon  the  death  of  his 
father  in  1869,  Prof.  John  W.  Burgess, 
who  was  appointed  the  boy's  guardian, 
placed  him  in  Knox  College,  at  Gales- 
burg,  111.  He  studied  there  two  years, 
and  afterward  remained  for  some  time 
at  the  University  of  Missouri. 

Francis  Wilson,  a  life-long  friend  of 
Field,  says  of  the  father  and  mother  of 
the  poet :  "  He,  very  unfortunately,  had 
but  a  fleeting,  faint  memory  of  his 
mother.  She  passed  to  the  great  be- 
1  [54] 


EUGENE   FIELD:    A  Sketch 

yond  when  he  was  but  a  child  of  a  few 
years,  but  he  drew  a  noble  inspiration 
from  his  father,  who  was  all  in  all  to 
him  through  boyhood,  youth,  and  young 
manhood.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  he 
never  wrote  a  line  in  prose  or  ballad 
dedicated  to  that  father,  but  he  loved 
and  revered  him  none  the  less." 

Eugene  Field's  first  attempt  at  author 
ship  was  in  an  amateur  way  for  news 
papers  in  1871,  when  he  was  twenty- 
one  and  a  sophomore  at  Knox  College, 
Galesburg,  111.  This  early  work  was  his 
preparation  for  the  tasks  of  his  later  life. 

Dr.  Henry  Tyler  assisted  in  Field's 
education  at  Knox  College.  "  He  made 
life  a  burden  for  me,"  Dr.  Tyler  once 
[  55  ] 


EUGENE    FIELD:    A  Sketch 

remarked ;  "  but  never  in  a  way  that 
could  be  reproved.  It  was  simply  im 
possible  to  inspire  him  with  an  idea 
of  subservient  respectfulness  to  others. 
Gaily  carolling  up  the  college  walk,  ten 
minutes  late  for  his  recitation,  he  would 
see  me  in  my  chair  near  the  window 
and  cry,  'Ah,  good-morning,  doctor! 
I'm  a  little  late.  Shall  I  jump  in 
through  the  window?'  and  without 
waiting  for  permission  he  usually  made 
his  entrance  that  way,  while  the  other 
pupils  trembled  in  expectation  of  the 
reprimand  which  I  had  not  the  heart 
to  give." 

While  a  student  at  the  University  of 
Missouri,  Field  met  a  young  man  named 
[  56  ] 


EUGENE  FIELD:    A  Sketch 

Comstock.  They  became  "  chums  "  and 
decided  to  travel  together  for  a  year  in 
Europe.  Before  the  journey  was  begun, 
young  Field  accepted  an  invitation  to 
make  a  few  weeks'  visit  at  the  Com 
stock  home  in  St.  Joseph.  His  friend 
had  five  sisters  of  such  surpassing  fair 
ness  that  they  were  known  and  are 
remembered  as  "the  pretty  Comstock 
girls." 

The  second  of  these  young  ladies, 
Julia  Sutherland  Comstock,  was  then 
only  1 6  years  of  age,  but  Eugene  fell  in 
love  with  her  at  once,  and  during  his 
brief  sojourn  in  St.  Joseph  he  promptly 
proposed  and  was  accepted.  Before  the 
two  had  reached  the  Atlantic  coast 
[  57  ] 


EUGENE  FIELD:  A  Sketch 

young  Comstock  missed  his  travelling 
companion.  Investigation  showed  that 
Field  had  returned  to  St.  Joseph  to  bid  his 
sweetheart  another  and  a  longer  farewell. 

His  six  months'  tour  of  Europe  was 
one  long  holiday. 

"I  had  a  lovely  time,"  he  said  once, 
in  telling  his  experience  to  a  friend.  "  I 
just  swatted  the  money  around.  Just 
think  of  it,  a  boy  of  2 1 ,  without  father 
or  mother,  and  with  $60,000.  It  was 
a  lovely  experience.  I  saw  more  things 
and  did  more  things  than  are  dreamed 
of  in  your  philosophy,  Horatio.  I  had 
money.  I  paid  it  out  for  experience — 
it  was  plenty.  Experience  was  lying 
around  loose." 

[  58  ] 


EUGENE   FIELD:    A  Sketch 

Field  stayed  abroad  until  the  $60,000 
was  spent.  Then  he  came  home,  mar 
ried  Miss  Comstock,  and  began  his 
career  as  a  journalist,  on  the  staff  of 
the  St.  Louis  Journal.  He  achieved 
his  first  prominent  triumph  as  news 
writer  while  a  correspondent  at  Jeffer 
son  City  during  the  session  of  the 
Legislature.  These  letters  were  charac 
terized  by  a  faithful  account  of  legis 
lative  proceedings,  graphic  description, 
brilliant  criticism,  and  incisive  sarcasm. 
This  field  afforded  him  unbounded 
opportunities  for  the  exercise  of  his 
peculiar  genius. 

From  St.  Louis  he  went  to  St.  Joseph, 
where  for  a  period  of  eighteen  months 
[  59  ] 


EUGENE  FIELD:  A  Sketch 

he  was  Associate  Editor  of  the  Gazette. 
Then  he  returned  to  St.  Louis  as  a 
writer  of  editorial  paragraphs  for  the 
'Journal.  This  was  the  beginning  of 
his  work  in  the  line  which  he  used  to 
call  "my  own."  He  wrote  his  first 
verse  for  the  'Journal. 

Then  he  went  to  the  Kansas  City 
'Times  as  managing  editor,  and  there  he 
wrote  the  "  Little  Peach,"  which  was 
set  to  music  and  sung  all  over  the  coun 
try.  In  1 88 1  he  went  to  the  Denver 
Tribune,  where  he  remained  until  he 
joined  the  Chicago  News  staff  in  1883. 
He  went  to  The  News  under  contract 
to  write  what  he  pleased,  but  he  was  to 
furnish  a  column  a  day  of  it.  His  col- 
[  60  ] 


EUGENE   FIELD:   A  Sketch 

umn,  "  Sharps  and  Flats,"  was  widely 
known,  and  was  continued  until  within 
a  few  days  of  his  death. 

His  capacity  for  work  was  prodigious. 
A  pen  capable  of  making  only  the  finest 
hair-strokes,  when  once  set  to  travelling 
over  a  pad  of  paper,  produced  within 
two  hours  enough  of  his  beautiful  mi 
croscopic  writing  to  fill  a  long  news 
paper  column  of  agate  type.  Usually 
the  sheets  went  to  the  printers  without 
a  blot  or  erasure.  Yet,  Field's  best  pro 
ductions  were  by  no  means  hastily  done, 
A  poem  or  a  story  developed  in  his  mind 
for  days  and  sometimes  for  weeks  or 
months  before  a  word  of  it  was  written. 

His  wit  and  sarcasm  in  that  famous 
[  61  ] 


EUGENE   FIELD:    A  Sketch 

editorial  column  of  "Sharps  and  Flats" 
attracted  world-wide  attention.  He  had 
repeated  offers  from  Eastern  newspapers 
and  magazines.  One  great  New  York 
daily  offered  him  his  own  price  to  join 
its  editorial  staff.  Always,  at  least  twice 
a  year,  these  tempting  offers  were  made 
to  him,  but  he  steadily  refused  them. 
He  was  in  his  element  in  the  West,  he 
used  to  say,  and  he  meant  to  stay  there. 
There  was  no  element  in  the  East,  only 
an  atmosphere.  He  was  essentially  a 
Western  man.  His  sympathies  were 
with  the  Western  ways  of  life  and  his 
likings  were  for  them.  He  was  fearful 
of  himself  in  the  East.  So  whatever  the 
attraction  and  inducements  offered,  he 
[  62  ] 


EUGENE   FIELD:    A  Sketch 

invariably  refused  to  give  up  his  Western 
freedom. 

While  Field's  clever  newspaper  feuille- 
tons  made  him  celebrated  throughout 
the  journalistic  world,  he  was  not  known 
to  the  general  reading  public  until  the 
appearance  of  his  two  books,  "A  Little 
Book  of  Western  Verse"  and  "A  Little 
Book  of  Profitable  Tales." 

Ill  health  compelled  him  to  again 
visit  Europe  in  1889,  and  for  more  than 
a  year  he  travelled  on  the  Continent. 
While  abroad  he  saw  much  of  literary 
London,  and  received  at  its  hands  many 
kind  attentions.  There  he  renewed  ac 
quaintanceship  with  his  talented  class 
mate  of  Williams  College,  Isaac  Hen- 
[  63  ] 


EUGENE    FIELD:    A  Sketch 

derson,  the  novelist.  In  London  also 
he  rummaged  during  many  weeks  for 
old  books,  old  theatrical  programmes, 
and  curios  of  all  sorts,  finally  departing 
heavily  laden  with  spoil.  Prominent 
among  his  foreign  treasures  was  the 
well-worn  axe  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  who 
presented  it  to  him  and  received  thanks 
in  the  shape  of  an  epigram. 

While  in  England,  he  paid  a  visit  to 
the  grave  of  John  Wesley,  and  tells  this 
anecdote  of  his  experiences  there  :  "As 
you  leave  the  spot  you  are  swooped 
down  upon  by  a  hawk-nosed  female 
who  inveigles  you  into  a  sort  of  lodge 
and  worries  you  until  you  pay  her  two 
shillings  for  a  series  of  twenty-four 


EUGENE  FIELD:    A  Sketch 

pictures  purporting  to  illustrate  the  life 
of  Wesley. 

"'You'll  come  down  to-morrow  and 
attend  service,  won't  you?'  asked  this 
old  griffin. 

"  *  Inasmuch  as  I  live  about  five  miles 
due  west  of  here,'  said  I,  'it  is  likely 
that  if  I  attend  service  at  all  I  shall 
attend  service  where  a  cab  fare  of  two 
and  six  is  not  involved.' 

"'But  aren't  you  a  Noncomformist 
divine  ?'  she  asked. 

" '  Madam,'  said  I  seriously,  '  I  have 
been  mistaken  at  different  times  for  Sol 
Smith  Russell,  Nat  Goodwin,  Harry 
Dixey,  and  Bill  Nye,  but  never  yet  have 
I  been  told  that  I  looked  like  a  preacher. 
[  65  ] 


EUGENE  FIELD:  A  Sketch 

No,  my  good  sister  in  Adam,  I  am  not 
a  clergyman — I  am  by  predestination, 
preordination,  prepossession,  predilection, 
and  profession,  an  ungodly  newspaper 
man.' 

"  *  Lor'  me ! '  she  exclaimed,  and  a 
shade  of  disappointment  crept  into  her 
voice;  'thinkin'  you  was  a  divine  I 
knocked  offsixpence  on  them  pictures ! ' ' 

Being  a  genius,  Field  possessed  the 
inevitable  touch  of  eccentricity  which 
showed  itself  most  prominently  in  his 
love  for  old  and  rare  books.  Many  of 
the  volumes  he  purchased  had  no  possi 
ble  bearing  upon  his  work,  and  indeed 
had  small  intrinsic  value.  "  My  library," 
he  used  to  say,  "is  full  of  fool  books," 
[  66  ] 


EUGENE   FIELD:    A  Sketch 

and  there  was  some  truth  in  this.  For 
example,  he  had  hundreds  of  volumes 
containing  the  works  of  unknown  and 
for  the  most  part  unworthy  poets. 
Nothing  pleased  him  more  than  to  buy 
some  little  volume  of  execrable  verse, 
produced  by  a  local  poet  in  Battle 
Creek,  or  any  other  insignificant  place, 
and  these  he  would  range  proudly  with 
the  others  and  sometimes  turn  over  the 
pages  "just  to  see  how  bad  they  were." 
He  said  that  things  had  to  be  either  very 
good  or  very  bad  in  order  to  please  him. 
He  was  essentially  a  bibliophrydasiac, 
or,  in  other  words,  an  inspirer  of  biblio 
mania.  His  most  notable  proselytes  to 
the  noble  craze  were  Francis  Wilson, 
[  67  ] 


EUGENE  FIELD:  A  Sketch 

the  comedian,  and  Harry  B.  Smith,  the 
librettist.  They  never  collected  books 
until  Field  introduced  them  to  the  seduc 
tive  pleasures  of  book-hunting. 

Field  was  a  most  enthusiastic  collector 
of  everything  that  for  any  reason  might 
be  regarded  as  worth  collecting.  Once 
in  New  York,  some  of  his  friends  found 
him  in  his  room  at  a  Broadway  hotel 
surrounded  by  old  pewter  pots  and 
plates,  old  warming-pans  and  porringers 
and  everything  else  that  looked  as  if  it 
might  be  old.  He  tried  hard  to  believe 
that  these  things  came  over  in  the  May 
flower,  and  no  matter  what  the  prices  he 
paid  he  thought  he  had  made  a  bargain. 
This  inability  to  refuse  to  buy  anything 
[  68  ] 


EUGENE    FIELD:    A  Sketch 

said  to  be  a  curio  gave  rise  to  some 
ridiculous  stories  about  him. 

He  had  a  collection  of  envelopes  used 
during  the  Civil  War,  and  all  the  sheet 
music  of  the  time  that  once  stirred  the 
heart  of  the  nation.  He  also  had  a 
collection  of  bells,  of  dolls  of  all  nations, 
and  of  mechanical  toys. 

During  the  last  two  years  of  his  event 
ful  life,  Field  became  popular  upon  the 
lecture  platform  as  a  reader  of  his  own 
works.  The  night  of  his  death,  Novem 
ber  4,  1895,  he  had  a  engagement  to 
read  in  Kansas  City.  He  passed  away 
at  his  home  in  Buena  Park,  a  suburb  of 
Chicago,  in  the  quiet  of  the  night  after 
a  slight  illness  of  only  a  few  hours'  dura- 
[  69  ] 


EUGENE  FIELD:   A  Sketch 

tion.  They  found  him  in  the  morning, 
his  hands  clasped  over  his  heart,  a  smile 
of  peace  upon  his  face.  Thus  went  out 
the  light,  and  the  world  lost  a  gentle, 
kindly  man,  poet,  wit,  philosopher,  and 
friend  of  all  humanity. 

Eugene  Field  sleeps  the  long,  eternal 
sleep  in  Graceland  Cemetery,  near  Chi 
cago,  and  his  myrtle-covered  grave  is  a 
shrine  for  many  pilgrims  who  seek  to 
pay  homage  to  the  children's  poet. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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